


Looking On

by Ladycat



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Friendship, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-12
Updated: 2014-02-12
Packaged: 2018-01-12 02:47:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1181004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ladycat/pseuds/Ladycat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The sensation isn’t quite pain, but close, and he savors it, tightening his fist without changing the pressure of his movements, top to bottom, over and over, brush and shush and brush some more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Looking On

The steady _whisk, whisk, whisk_ of the brush is oddly soothing. The handle is wood, not the plastic out of his memories, and it digs grooves into his palm. The sensation isn’t quite pain, but close, and he savors it, tightening his fist without changing the pressure of his movements, top to bottom, over and over, brush and shush and brush some more.

He loves the way the light catches in the furrows he makes, amber glints that mask the darkness underneath, like hidden secrets and thoughts only he can reveal with each new lift of his arm, touch and settle, gently as landing a plane—the city, can’t forget the city, like a kiss—then let gravity tug him down, swish and flow until the ends flick gleaming gold at him.

There'll be static, soon, crackles of miniature lightning, stinging his palm and arm. He doesn’t stop.

Her body is warm against his thighs, relaxed and still for the first time in minutes, hours, maybe days— _"How can you ask this of me?" "Because you're the only one"_ —each second counted by the beat of a heart that has no cares, no burdens, not here. Not now, when there is swish and shush and brush brush brush.

“Who was she?” Teyla asks, her voice a whisper on top of the bristles. It’s ignorable, supposed to be so, and almost, almost, he does, giving in to the vision that drove him out of bed, across silent halls to knock and ask and give.

The room is dark, it’s always dark, light hovering around the edges, iced from the moon’s struggle to match her brother, the sun. He can barely see, and doesn’t need to, as memory and fantasy superimpose themselves over each other: in memory, in history, it was him who burrowed into a warm, soft shoulder, hiding his face in a neck that smelled of sweet grass and flowers, a hint of spice sliding down his spine until he’s boneless, caught up secure as he’s whirled around the room, quiet steps beneath a quieter voice.

The dream—the vision, the fantasy, the hope, god, the _hope_ —is that it is Teyla who is held, small and solemn because no one in Pegasus has a childhood, not really, not even like his own fractured version. She is one here, though, music weaving around them as he holds her closer, the way the words he whispers demand, reminding her that the boulevard is not that bad. He waltzes, or tries to, circling dizzily as he cuddles the way he’s only had, only wanted, once before, against a woman who had liked him, maybe, loved him out of duty and obligation, skin deep affection.

He wants it to be different now, as he dances her around and around again, soothing her from her busy day today. He wants her peace and her comfort, wants to be the one who gives it to her, to be the one she trusts enough. So in his mind’s eye he sees her, small and amber-gold, face pressed against his neck as he murmurs about her pretty eyes, her pirate smiles, around and around and around.

Teyla’s head lifts up enough, breaking from his memory—dream, or wish—to look at him through the mirror. Her face is relaxed, almost sleepy, and the brush is dangerously close to her ear, about to rake over skin instead of soft hair, thick and smooth against his hands. “Who was she?” Teyla asks. “Who did you do this for, John?”

“My mother.” Small enough to not disdain the activity, he remembers the way she smiled at him, eyes suddenly alive through silvered glass, head tipped back to shake out long, dark hair, so similar to his own, letting his tiny hands drag a brush twice their size through it, over and over and over again. “I used to do this for my mother.”

“Ah,” she says, and, “It feels nice.”

John nods, hands suddenly too big and clumsy before he rights himself, steady and balanced without even a tremble, as the brush shushes and swishes and slides through her hair, again and again. He brushes until she's asleep, finally, lost in dreaming he hopes includes dancing in the sand.


End file.
